The Empty Flat
by Queerasil
Summary: Sherlock goes back to 221B after John's wedding. He is alone, haunted by the memories and the man that just won't die. Moriarty nods before standing up to face Sherlock. "Was it worth it?" Sherlock replies cooly, "I could ask you the same thing." Moriarty smirks, but his eyes are filled with terror. "Was this worth dying for?" Sherlock looks back at the empty chair. "No."


Sherlock is alone.

_We can't all dance. There are limits._

_Yes, there are._

_Alone is what I have. _

_Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?_

_Who leaves a wedding early?_

_I warned you, Sherlock. Don't get involved. _

_I'm not involved._

_Alone protects me._

**_I will burn the heart out of you._**

_I've been reliably informed that I don't have one._

_**Well, we both know that's not quite true.** _

…

The door handle is crooked. Sherlock welcomes that small mercy, thanking whatever will listen that his brother isn't here to confront him.

Sherlock's hands are shaking. He attributes it to the frigid cold outside, but really knows it's something else entirely. _Sentiment. _

Sherlock traces his finger along the bannister of the stairwell, savoring how soft and clean the wood feels. He even gets a tingle of familiarity when he touches it. _I've been here before, _he realizes, although he's not sure if that's a good thing.

Honestly, in Serbia, during those grueling, interminable torture sessions, Sherlock never thought he would see daylight again – let alone be back in _his flat_.

_Well, not just his flat. _

The living room of 221B is as it always was. Messy, dirty, home. Bullet holes in the wall. A yellow smiley face, the only thing happy in the room. The skull is still on the mantle, and his violin still rests exactly where he left it. The floor is littered with semi-important papers, and several pillows are strewn about. The fireplace is cold. His chair, rough and leather-tough. The couch, long and smooth and soft. John's chair –

_John's chair._

Empty.

Sherlock stares at John's chair for a good few minutes before realizing he's never sat in it before. He has no idea what it feels like, and it bothers the hell out of him. He knows every inch of the flat. Everything from the number of fibers in the carpet to the number of bumps in the wall. He remembers every stain in the sink, every knot in the wood of the kitchen cupboard, every crack in the windows. He knows the holes in the ceiling and the 71 different kinds of mold in the kitchen by name. Sherlock knows the texture of every fabric, every surface in 221B – except John's chair.

Moriarty is sitting in Sherlock's chair, sipping tea with a grin on his face. "You've never sat there before." Moriarty taunts, "Why?"

"It's John's chair," Sherlock answers simply, as though the simple fact that it's _John's_ justifies everything.

**"**John's gone, though, isn't he**." **

Sherlock turns to face the man he knows isn't really there. "Yes. John is gone. John is long gone."

Moriarty nods before standing up to face Sherlock. "Was it worth it?"

Sherlock replies cooly, "I could ask you the same thing."

Moriarty smirks, but his eyes are filled with terror. "Was this worth dying for?"

Sherlock looks back at the empty chair. He stares at it, his eyes unmoving as he answers. "No. I didn't die for this."

"No. Neither did I." Moriarty disappears, leaving Sherlock alone once again.

Sherlock doesn't sit in the chair.

He stares at John's chair for a long time before silently deciding to move it.

Sherlock doesn't go in his own bedroom. He knows it all already. It's too lonely, too distant, too far from everything else. He already knows everything in there from the thread count in his sheets to the ants living under the floorboards.

_(Sherlock won't admit the real reason he doesn't want to go in his bedroom. He remembers exactly where the lose floorboard is and what's hidden under it. He can't – __**won't**__ – __do that yet.)_

Sherlock walks up the stairs, memorizing and cataloging the way the stairs creak under his step. He feels like he's climbing up the scale of a piano. At the top of the stairs, he reaches the crescendo: John's old room.

Sherlock stops dead at John's door, unsure if he should enter or not. Cautiously, he pushes the door open.

John's room is empty. There's only a empty bed and a chest of empty drawers. He shuffles in, and stops just in front of John's bed. The carpet feels like grass underneath his feet. The curtains are shut, and the shadows in the room make him feel as though he's being haunted.

Sherlock turns off the lamp, shuts the door, and sits on John's bed.

John's bed is softer, more welcoming than Sherlock's own cold bed. The crazy thing is, Sherlock can swear that John's bed is almost warm.

Silently, Sherlock takes off his shoes, leans back on the bed, and pulls the blankets up over himself. John's blankets made of some cheap material, but to Sherlock they feel like silk. Sherlock swears he can smell John's aftershave (mint) on John's pillow.

_John's aftershave. John's sheets. John's pillows. John's blankets. John's room. John's chair._

Sherlock drifts off into an uneasy sleep with one thought:

**John.**

...

**NOTES**

**I slipped on some feels, and this is what happened. In case I didn't make it clear (which I probably didn't), this takes place when Sherlock returns from John's wedding. I was so pissed at John during TSoT that it was only mildly funny. Finally, I love the idea of Sherlock memorizing 221B, and using it to pull himself out of his depression. The fact that Sherlock h****as a place - a home, so to speak - is absolutely beautiful for me. I also adore the idea of Sherlock hallucinating about Moriarty. **

**I sincerely hope you enjoy! Please tell me what you think! I hope this fic didn't make you too sad.**


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